


May I Stand Unshaken

by spidermanhomecomeme



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Animal Death, Bandits & Outlaws, Cowboy Hats, Dark, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fictional Geography, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Red Dead Redemption, Irondad, Morality, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tension, Terminal Illnesses, Violence, apologies in advance lmao, rootin' tootin' cowboy shootin', yeeeeeeeeee haaaaaaaw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:41:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spidermanhomecomeme/pseuds/spidermanhomecomeme
Summary: Nearing the turn of the nineteenth century, amidst the decline of the Wild West, Peter Parker struggles to cope with changes in his way of life and is forced to make choices between his morality and loyalty to those around him.A Red Dead Redemption AU.
Relationships: Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Harry Osborn, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 64
Kudos: 48





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> WELL HOWDY EVERYBODY
> 
> This is a little (lol) idea I've had swimming around in my head ever since I first played Red Dead Redemption II last year. It's going to be a long one, so buckle up! Also a very very very slow burn (whoops) so hang in there!!
> 
> This is going to be so different from anything I've written in the past, so I'm really excited to finally get to share it with all of you!!
> 
> Also, a huge huge HUGE thank you to seekrest, who let me scream at her about this story and helped me with figuring out what to do!! I literally could not have done this without your help! You are amazing, friend!! 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this prologue to this story that is so near and dear to my heart. <3

_Fourteenth of November, 1898_

There was a homestead; a small, unassuming place. Humble enough. Miles from civilization, secluded in the north Grizzlies of Ambarino, hidden by the towering pines. A small garden sat out front; a large, worn down barn in the back, a few chicks and ducks scurrying about the isolated property. And that was all it was to any passerby; a simple, lonely cottage. Only, it wasn’t deserted; a trader lived there, apparently sitting on a heap of cash, hoping to make one last big sale before the harsh winter. 

At least, that’s what Harry’d heard from those drunken fellers back in that saloon in Valentine about a week past. They’d raved on and on about this man—this trader that had been making no small name for himself in all of New Hanover. Once a month, he’d come into town in his large wagon, trading his goods and furs for a pretty penny, before going on his way

Leaving his home all alone, empty, unguarded in the mountains as he went.

It was certainly worth a look. An easy take, no doubt. 

Though perhaps Peter should have known better, he realized with an almost fond shake of his head before his mare stumbled over a patch of the uneven rough, rocky terrain; with Harry Osborn, no matter how much he promised, no take was ever, “easy.”

The mare snorted, tossing her head in frustration.“Shhh, girl. You’re okay,” Peter soothed, patting the side of her neck before turning his attention forward, watching as Harry was struggling just as much with his gelding. “You sure ‘bout this?”

Harry looked up from under his hat, the corner of his mouth quirking back into a wry smile. “You doubtin’ me again?”

Peter shrugged, staying silent for a moment. “I don’t know… Just… Well…”

“The man is probably halfway to Blackwater by now. Ain’t no way he’s catchin’ us.”

“I know. I know…” Peter sighed. “It just… It don’t… It don’t feel right. Still.”

At that, Harry pulled at the reins, stopping his horse. “It’s not like we’re robbin’ this man at gunpoint, Peter. You asked for no killin’, and that’s what I got you. A simple, honest, home robbery. Just… stopping by an empty house, and if there happens to be a pile a’ money…” The smirk on Harry’s face grew. “Then we can’t just leave it there and let somebody take it. We gotta watch it for him. Do the neighborly thing.”

Peter let out a laugh, in spite of the gnawing in his gut. “You got a funny way a’ justifyin’ things.” 

“And remember, my friend,” Harry continued, ignoring the comment, before clicking his tongue and urging his horse forward again. “You need this money more than I do.” 

Well, if Harry had been right about anything in his life, it was that. This money, if there even was any, would help Peter quite a bit; would help him finally get out of this god forsaken mess he’d put himself in all those months ago. 

But most important of all, it’d help May. 

All of this was for Aunt May.

He needed this money. More than anything. 

But still, even then, robbing a man’s home when he’s out making deliveries didn’t seem like the right way to go about it. 

Even after six months of running with Harry and the gang, after all of the heists and the quick and dirty jobs, it wasn’t something that Peter had gotten used to, or felt that he’d _ever_ get used to, much less feel remotely decent about. 

“Besides!” The sound of Harry’s voice pulled Peter from his thoughts, his friend calling over his shoulder. “He won’t even know we’ve been there!” 

“Yeah.” Peter scoffed, still following. “‘Cept when he comes back and he sees that all his hard earned money is gone and stolen by a pair a’ degenerates.”

Harry offered nothing in return, chuckling to himself as they continued the hard trek up the mountain trail. The wind whipped around them, the birds silent. Distant sounds of wolves howling and the rumbling of bears could be heard as the sun began to fall in the sky. They rode for what seemed like hours, the horses growing tired from navigating the rocky paths. 

There was no light that greeted them as they came upon the cottage, not entirely unexpected. The place looked abandoned enough, no life coming from inside. One might have even missed it entirely if they weren’t looking for it.

Though, the single horse, a speckled gray mare tied to a tree, put a rock in Peter’s belly. 

The mare’s eyes widened at the strangers, her feet stamping in the frosty mud as they neared. Her tail flicked back and forth as she raised her head as high as her lead would let her. 

“Something’s got her spooked.” Peter’s voice fell to a hushed whisper, making sure to keep his distance as they dismounted their own horses.

Harry, seeming to have no qualms here whatsoever, simply approached her, hands held out in front of him, voice soft. “Hey there, girl.”

The mare whinnied in protest with a toss of her mane, snorting angrily before rearing.

“Shit.” Harry cursed, nearly tripping over himself as he instantly backed away. “Spooked alright.”

“What do we do with her?” Peter asked, stepping around to the other side and out of kicking range. “We can’t just leave her all tied up.”

Harry was silent for a moment, “Let her go?” He offered, bringing a hand to his chin as he walked a wide circle around the startled horse. “She’s a fine lookin’ animal, though. We could take her back to camp? Maybe into town, see if we can get anything for her?”

It was a good idea; even if the whole tale about a pile of money hidden somewhere on the property ended up being untrue, they didn’t come all this way out for nothing. They’d still turn a profit.

Peter nodded. “Sure.”

“Check the house and the barn first though,” Harry started toward the gate, adjusting his hat. “We’ll worry ‘bout her after we’re done.”

And still, something didn’t feel right about this. 

The mare wasn’t saddled, so it wasn’t as if someone was there at that moment… But for the life of him, Peter couldn’t wrap his head around the idea that this trader man would just leave one of his horses out in the open instead of in the barn, let alone leave it at all. 

Still, to be careful, both men wordlessly drew their revolvers, keeping them low at their sides.

The house was indeed empty; silent, save for the creaks and groans of the wood floors underneath their boots. The cold from outside lingered still as they stepped over the threshold and into the home. Peter stood still a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the inky black of the room. It was dark, almost too dark; only the outlines of a kitchen and dining table visible. 

“Can’t see a damn thing in here,” Harry said, striking a match and bringing it to one of the many unlit candles, the sudden sound causing Peter to jump. 

“Wait,” Peter held his hand up. “What’re you doin’? What happened to ‘he won’t even know we’ve been here!’?”

Harry only scoffed, lighting yet another candle. “I highly doubt this feller’s gonna know we’ve been here all ‘cause his candles are a little lower than they were when he left.”

The warm, flickering yellow glow slowly began to fill the room. 

Peter opened his mouth to speak, though he found that there was no response he could give. He turned away, feeling a little defeated as he started half-heartedly ransacking the house.

Finally able to see, Harry moved to the cabinets along the wall, wasting no time before rifling through them. A box of crackers, a piece of cloth, a can of beans. Nothing of real value, though he still made sure to stuff them into his satchel. “He’ll know because all his money’ll be gone,” He muttered under his breath, not looking up from the provisions in his hands, the corner of his mouth quirking into a teasing smirk.

“Harry...”

But Harry only laughed, chuckling to himself. “My friend,” He tried once more in what was supposed to be a reassuring tone. “You worry too much.”

Peter offered nothing in return to that last statement, knowing well that worrying “too much” was not something one could do in this life. 

He decided, instead, to ignore Harry’s comment.

There was a stone fireplace along the center wall of the home, the mantle having only a few candles and two picture frames. The first picture showed what Peter assumed was the very man that lived here, stood proudly next to his wife and their two children, a curly-haired daughter and a younger, cheery-looking son. The second showed the mother only, her expression warm, yet stern. 

And it was then that the simmering guilt began to boil, his heart weighing heavily in his chest as he put the picture back, retracting his hand as if the very frame had burned him. 

“Poor bastard…” Harry said, suddenly behind Peter, glancing once over his shoulder as he moved to another corner of the room. 

With a shake of his head, Peter backed away from the mantle, trying his hardest to quell the remorse plaguing his mind. 

_Poor bastard, indeed._

Now seeing it in the light, the place was a damn mess, the owner seeming to have left in quite a hurry. There wasn’t much more that Peter could do to make it worse. A table sat in the middle of the room, plates from an abandoned meal still set out, a half-eaten loaf of bread still in the center, an open book left face down on the floor below. 

The kitchen was no better; pots and pans were strewn about the stove and counters, bowls and plates littering the floor. 

He opened drawers, side tables, even more cabinets. 

And still, nothing of any value, save for the occasional provision.

It was as if the place had been cleaned out already.

Harry coughed, stowing another small box of crackers in his satchel. “I’m gonna go check that barn. You keep lookin’ in here, alright?”

Peter only nodded, feeling the eyes from the pictures on the mantle burning into the back of his neck. He knew all of this was still wrong, no matter which way he put it; robbing a man’s home, regardless of whether or not said man lived alone or had someone to provide for, but…

The trader had a family. They were simple country folk, just trying to make a living. 

Just like he and May had been. 

The two bedrooms, small and quaint like the rest of the home, were just as empty. No jewelry, no coin purses, no precious family heirlooms; still nothing. 

He’d just found the ladder to the loft above what he assumed was the kid’s bedroom when he heard the yell.

“Pete! Get out here!” 

There was a sinking feeling, then, just as Harry’s voice shouted from outside, Peter’s feet carrying him out of the empty house.

Harry stood near the barn, and for the first time that evening, his expression was stern, all traces of mischief gone. “We got a problem. There’s a—” He started, a little breathless, pointing to the cloth-covered wagon beside him. “There’s a corpse… right there…” His hand reached out, taking the frost-covered cloth in his hand and pulling it up, revealing the poor man. 

It had clearly been a struggle, the man having to fight for his very life, only to lose so horribly. The hay and wood around him was stained in deep red.

Breath catching in his throat, Peter took a step back at the bloody sight. 

There was a moment of silence between them before Harry lowered the cloth, shaking his head. “Then, there’s, uh, one a’ Fisk’s boys in the barn, pretty shot up.”

It was then that Peter looked up again. 

Wilson Fisk. 

He and his boys had always been one step behind them for years now, never quite able to have the same luck with jobs as the Osborn gang. It was no different, no change at all, when just last month, after that train job they’d been planning for weeks had been swiped right from under them in just a single afternoon. 

Peter hadn’t been running with Harry and his associates long, but even just a few months with them told him all he needed to know. 

They were all angry, Fisk’s boys. No doubt about that.

“And I think this feller,” Harry said, gesturing again to the body in the wagon. “Was that trader.”

Peter’s heart lurched in his chest.

Harry was right.

The man from the photograph. 

The trader.

He was probably getting ready to leave when the attack happen. 

Peter shuttered to think what fate had befallen the wife and children.

That was the difference between Fisk’s boys and them, Harry’s father, Norman, had said. Willie and his crew, they didn’t care about who they killed, why they killed. They murdered for the fun of it, for the thrill of being the ones in control. They did it all for sport. Old Willie didn’t care who you were or where you were from, just if you could shoot a gun. 

The way Norman saw it, his own gang was just doing whatever it took to survive, but there was always a code, a set of rules, a saying:

_Shoot fellers as need shooting._

_Save fellers as need saving._

_And feed fellers as need feeding._

It was all about finding out what some poor bastard needed.

But still, even with their “code,” Peter never saw any glory in what they were doing. Stealing from the rich was still stealing, killing a man in self-defense was still killing, no matter which way anyone put it. 

“Think we should give him a proper burial?” Peter asked.

The other man only shook his head. “Afraid we ain’t got time for that.”

There was another stretch of weighted silence before Harry spoke again. 

“Find anything in the house?” 

“Nothin’.” Peter shook his head, unable to tear his gaze from the covered wagon. ”There’s a loft in one a’ the bedrooms, but I, uh, didn’t get a chance to check it.”

His friend nodded slowly, pursing his lips. He stood still a moment, before turning on his heels back to the house again. “I’ll go take one last look. You get that mare ready to go.”

“I doubt there’s anythin’ left after Fisk’s boys’ve been here.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Harry only stopped to glance over his shoulder. “But just in case. Don’t wanna miss anything. Doubt Fisk’s boys were smart enough to check.”

The faint smile that tugged at Peter’s lips was the first genuine one all night, even through the storm that was festering in his insides as he turned to face the mare again.

She was still angry, and scared, that was for sure. Her ears were pinned back against her head, nostrils flared as she stamped her front feet. It was all a warning; all as if to say _don’t mess with me, idiot_. 

But Peter was certainly no greenhorn when it came to horse taming. He’d spent a majority of his youth and teen years working the ranch with Uncle Ben, learning everything from milking cows to fending off rustlers. He wasn’t an expert yet, by any means, but he knew enough to not get kicked or bitten. He knew to take it slow—or as slow as he could take it given that particular moment. It was a pressure followed by a release. His footsteps were soft as he approached, his body relaxed as he talked in a hushed tone to her. 

The mare was by no means calm by the time he was able to get the lead around the tree untied, but it was enough to pull her away and tie her to his own horse’s saddle. Her head was still high, tail still swishing this way and that. There was still fear there; fear that he knew wouldn’t be gone in such a short amount of time. 

But he still remained patient, even as she tensed under his touch. 

“See?” Peter spoke to the mare, gently brushing some of the frost off of her gray coat. “We’re friends now.”

There was a split second where she had seemed to settle, where the mare seemed to welcome this stranger’s presence, only for the too-brief moment to be crushed by a sudden crashing sound from within the house.

Peter’s heart beat thundered in his ears as he ran to the disturbance, gun drawn and ready as he burst through the door. 

They had not been alone.

Peter stopped, startled at the sight of Harry ducking as a young woman threw things at him from across the house, a broken chair scattered across the floor in front of him. 

“Get outta here!” The woman yelled, voice tired and raw, keeping her distance. Her eyes widened, seeing the other man come in. She instantly reached for a knife, holding it out in front of her. 

“Miss!” Harry held his hands up, nodding to Peter to do the same. 

Peter instantly holstered his revolver, following Harry’s lead. 

The woman still doesn’t seem to trust them, the scowl on her face unchanging as she throws the next nearest object—a hardcover book—at them. 

“Miss, it’s okay!” Harry, once again, tried to reassure her.

The young woman’s breathing was ragged as she stared at the two of them; she stood there, her eyes red-rimmed from unshed, angry tears, the knife pointing at them steady despite the waver in her voice. “Who the hell’re you?” She demanded.

And it was then, as her eyes met his, that Peter recognized this woman.

The daughter from the photograph, though no longer the same little girl. 

“What d’you want?” She pressed through grit teeth, pushing the knife forward. 

Peter spoke this time, ducking his head down in a show of surrender. “We don’t mean you no harm, ma’am.”

Her eyes narrowed, the blade in her hand slowly lowering, though her vice-like grip stayed. 

“If you’re here for the money, you’ll be sorely disappointed. Bastards came threw just this morning.” She seethed, looking down at her feet. “Took _everything_ already.”

Neither of the outlaws responded to that, feeling the shame creeping over them.

It was clear then, as she stepped further into the light, the bruises littering her face and limbs, the limp in her step, the way she held her left arm close to her body, the crimson red splattered on the white cotton shirt.

How she’d survived the attack, neither of them knew. 

She grew quiet again under their stares, subtly trying to wipe under her eyes. 

Harry lowered his hands, though his still kept himself open and vulnerable. “Is there a… town or train station we could take you to?”

The young woman only shook her head. 

“Is that you’re horse out there?” Peter asked.

And again, she nodded, wincing when her next step was on the bad leg. She fell, suddenly growing weak—either from the pain, or from the blood loss—the knife clattering to the floor below, Peter and Harry instantly moving forward to catch her. 

They took her outside, Peter grabbing the blanket from his saddle bag to wrap around her shoulders. The fight in her had left, giving way to weariness, as she let them guide her out of the house and into the cold night air.

“Now, you can come with us miss,” Harry said, leading her to the horses. “Until you figure out what y’wanna do. We’re bad men,” He added, not looking to meet her eyes as he mounted his horse. “But we ain’t them.”

Peter stayed beside her, making sure she was stable on her feet. He waited a moment before returning his gaze to meet hers, his hand patting the leather saddle. “You okay to ride on my horse a little, ma’am?”

She gave a single, somber nod, wordlessly bracing herself on Peter’s shoulders as he lifted her into the saddle. 

And they rode. 

Her arms stayed limp around his middle, the anger and fear she’d felt earlier having melted into numbness as they navigated the hard mountain path. 

“You got any other family, miss?” Harry asked, tone careful, from his horse.

Peter felt the woman tense slightly. 

“No,” was her only reply. 

“What’s your name?” Harry questioned further, clearing his throat. “...Miss?”

A moment of silence passed.

When she spoke again, her weak voice had become almost fully drained of all strength, shattered and broken under the weight of her grief.

“Michelle… Michelle Jones.”


	2. Man is Born Unto Trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy everyone! I am back! Thank you all so much for your patience and I'm so excited to be back! I hope all of you are staying healthy and well and that you are distancing socially <3 Sorry this took forever, but I had a bad case of writer's block and a severe lack of motivation to do anything, but nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's been so lovely seeing the positive response to the prologue!!
> 
> Once again, this a very slow burn, so stick with me! 
> 
> Also, in this story, Peter is a young adult. 
> 
> Also also, some words are purposefully used incorrectly, mostly to show ignorance on some character's parts!
> 
> Thanks again for your patience, and I hope you have a rootin' tootin' time yee haw

_Seventeenth of May, 1898_

It was cold for the time of year, the last chill of a harsh winter still clinging desperately to the mid-May morning. The wail and tremolo calls of a great loon greeted the sunrise; the golden light shimmered through the blanketed mist as a young man and his workhorse made their way to town. The mare walked a gentle pace, a slight lameness to her step as they trudged through the frosty mud, a fresh hunt slung across her back. 

Pulling the worn jacket tighter around his body, Peter wondered how much he’d even get for the scrawny doe, with her dull and patchy coat. He knew he’d get something, at least… but enough for the next payment? He doubted.

It had taken more than one bullet to down the poor thing. The first shot had been too eager, too quick, Peter firing his rifle almost in surprise at how suddenly the deer had emerged from the trees. He’d snatched at the trigger, the crack of gunfire ringing out, birds and critters scattering. Her cries echoed as she fell to the ground, mortally wounded, fighting to stay alive. The gnawing in Peter’s gut as he approached her would not let him watch as she bled out on the cold forest floor, even if it would preserve what was left of the coat. 

The second shot came soon after.

Perhaps if he had been more patient it would have been a cleaner, quicker kill. Though, if he were being honest with himself, it may not have made a difference; he was never much of a hunter anyway. Never came naturally, even after all the hunting trips his Uncle Ben had taken him on. 

To Peter, the rigors of ranch work seemed much more appealing. He’d rather spend his days mending fences, herding cattle, caring for and raising horses. 

But Uncle Ben had always been insistent that his nephew learned at least something, taking him on all sorts of hunting trips all over West Elizabeth. Ben was always teasing that he’d never be able to help defend the ranch from rustlers if he couldn’t shoot a damn deer. And that using a varmint rifle to keep those pesky rabbits out of Aunt May’s garden didn’t count, either. 

Peter caught himself smiling softly at the memory. 

But the smile didn’t last, falling as Peter was reminded just why he’d been forced to hunt for his family. It was something he had to learn. His family couldn’t afford for him not to.

They just needed money. 

And so, he figured he would go into town, selling pelts when he had them, looking for any kind of work he could get, doing whatever he could to earn even just a little bit of money. Sometimes Mr. Harrington needed help with the horses over in the stables. Mr. Delmar over at the general store bought the goat cheese he and his aunt made, sometimes having a delivery that needed to be made after. 

As he passed the sheriff’s office, he couldn’t miss the weathered posters hanging on the board, the ones with the scribbled likenesses of dangerous outlaws. Even though the pay was better than anything else he could do in town, he shook off the idea of tearing one down. 

Bounty hunting was dangerous, and he wasn’t much use to his Aunt dead. 

The town was quiet, save for the rumbling of the wooden wagons and the distant whinnying of horses in the stables. A few townsfolk greeted him with passing, “hello’s,” and “how do’s,” tipping their hats at him as he walked by. Some conversations stopped as he passed, and he was met with quiet, almost pitied stares. Everyone there knew what had happened to his Uncle Ben, to his family. Word traveled fast in a town as small as Strawberry, no such thing as a secret; that was just something he had come to accept. 

He stopped at the general store, just across from the butcher’s stall, hitching his mare to a nearby post. First giving her a gentle pat on the neck, he went to untie the carcass from the saddle. He pulled the deer over his shoulder, chuckling to himself at the deep exhale his mare let out, a sound that almost sounded like relief at the weight being lifted from her back. 

“Ah, Mr. Parker,” the butcher greeted in his usual gruff tone, his smile not quite reaching his eyes as he wiped his hands on his already bloody apron. 

“Mr. Johnson,” Peter gave a single, polite nod, his expression twisting as he adjusted his grip on the doe. 

“What you got for me today?” The butcher asked as he started to clear of his counter, tossing all formalities aside, his tone laced with thinly-veiled impatience.

“Well,” Peter started, grunting as he dropped the deer down onto the stall counter. “I was wantin’ to see what I could get…. for this…” His words trailed off, watching as the butcher inspected the carcass. “This, uh… the pelt.”

Mr. Johnson’s eyes flashed up to his for a split-second before continuing.

After a too-long silence, the butcher took in a deep breath, letting it out in a quick sigh. “Uh, well, Mr. Parker, it’s…” He paused, giving a weak shrug. “I can do sixty cents.”

“Only sixty?” Peter’s heart sank, brows furrowing in confusion. While he certainly hadn’t expected all the gold in the world for such a low-grade animal, he wasn’t that naive to think so, earning nearly a whole half-dollar less than what he thought he’d be getting was…

Well, it was downright ridiculous.

“Come on now, friend,” Peter huffed out a nervous laugh. “Can’t be that bad.”

“I’m sorry, _friend_ ,” the butcher said, holding his hands up innocently. “Ain’t nothin’ more I can do. You’ve got one bullet hole in the chest, and one in the head. Now that’s less of the hide I can use—”

“—But—”

“And I’m assumin’ you want me to butcher this here meat for you. Cost of services goes into that. So. Sixty cents. Take it or leave it.”

Peter stood there a moment, jaw clenched, everything in him wanting to try and raise that price, to see if he could get just a little more... But he didn’t want to push his luck. With reluctance, he took the offer, shaking his head as he wordlessly took the coins Mr. Johnson held out.

After all, sixty cents was sixty cents.

“Pleasure doin’ business, Mr. Parker.” The butcher’s grin returned. “Make sure you stop by to get this venison before you head out.”

Peter only tipped his hat, offering a quiet thanks. His heart was heavy, head hung in defeat as he walked back to his horse.

While sixty cents _was_ sixty cents…

It still wouldn’t be enough. 

But if there were any bright side in this mess, the low-hanging branch that Peter clung desperately to in order to keep himself from drowning: although what he had wasn’t nearly enough for a whole payment, there was still another week before the collector returned. 

It wasn’t a lot of time, sure.

But it was still time. 

Mr. Delmar had given him a dollar for the single cheese wheel he’d brought with him, though Peter had only asked for fifty cents.

Old Ms. Warren happily welcomed his help in chopping firewood, but that only earned him another dime. 

Luckily, Mr. Harrington did need some help with the horses. A brushing here, a feeding there. Cleaning out the stalls wasn’t Peter’s favorite thing to do, and nearly getting kicked in the head from cleaning an angry stallion’s hooves was less than ideal, but it was good, honest work. 

Long as he got paid, he was happy. 

Unfortunately, Mr. Harrington had said upfront that he didn’t have much to pay him with. What with the prices of feed having gone up in the past few months. It was a hard winter. But, as much as it pained Peter to still be so far from his goal, he was still gracious. 

He was, after all, another fifty cents richer. 

But when the sun lowered in the sky, the blue bleeding into a pale pink; when the workers filled the saloon with boisterous laughter and music, Peter knew that he had to accept his defeat. After picking up his venison, he returned to his horse, allowing himself a soft smile in spite of his dreary mood at the way she bobbed her head at the sight of him. 

The ride home was quiet, save for the steady beat of the mare’s hooves on the dirt road, the occasional bark of foxes on the hills, clear and cold. The wind began to pick up, bringing with it a chill that encouraged him to pull his coat tighter. This was a ride he knew well, one he’d done many times before. Despite the aching guilt festering in his stomach, the dread of returning having only earned two dollars and twenty cents, for a moment, he was soothed by the sheer serenity of it all. 

But when he came upon the clearing, upon the field of lavender and swaying grass, the knot returned, tightening and twisting. He could see the house just ahead, a steady stream of smoke rising from the chimney, the lone barn, the bleating of the three goats and the clucking of chickens as he got nearer and nearer, and again he was faced with the fact that he was coming back essentially empty handed. 

He knew how his aunt would react. Of course she wouldn’t be angry. Wasn’t like her at all. Instead, she’d hide how truly worried she was, she’d put on a weary smile in an effort to comfort him, and she’d tell him that it was all going to turn out fine. Then, she’d just change the subject.

But even then, the reality of what was happening always weighed heavily on them.

He dismounted just before the gate, leading the mare to the barn; the door caught, stuck for a moment before Peter gave it another shove with his shoulder. 

Uncle Ben had always said he was going to fix that.

Peter took his time—perhaps too much—taking off his horse’s saddle and bridle; he made sure to brush the dirt and mud from her golden coat and fetlocks before stabling her. He checked the goats, and sprinkled fresh feed for the chickens. 

All that was left was to take the venison to the smokehouse and then to give Aunt May his news.

The front door creaked as he pushed it open. Mighty gusts whipped the small ranch house, making the wood groan. The smell of thyme and oregano was in the air, and he could hear the rhythmic chopping of vegetables from the kitchen. He followed both. There was warmth from the golden glow of the fire from the hearth, but there was little warmth in Aunt May’s strained smile as she looked up at him from her place at the counter. Head to toe, she wore black, as she had been since Uncle Ben’s death. 

Her hands stilled, her knife resting just above the immature carrots. 

“Hello, Peter,” She greeted, the tint of sadness in her tone still impossible to miss even as she tried to hide it. 

“Hi,” Peter smiled back, though it was just as weary, as he peered into the stew pot just beside her.

May’s grin faltered a moment before she continued chopping, moving her eyes back to her hands. “How was town?” 

Peter hesitated, rocking back on his heels before stepping away. In that moment, he would have much rather her not have asked at all, perhaps it would have bought him some time to make just a little more money. 

“Uh, well…” He cleared his throat, slowly pulling the too-light coin purse from his satchel and pouring the tarnished coins into his hand. He held it out to her, unable to meet her gaze as he did. “Two dollars and twenty cents. It’s… it’s not enough, but… but...” He paused, sighing in a quick, shaky exhale as he shrugged. “It might help.”

May was quiet, her brow pinched as she worked through the mental math. 

She grimaced.

Ever so slightly, she grimaced.

But Peter couldn’t have missed it.

“You’re right,” May finally spoke, letting out a deep breath. “It’s not _quite_ enough.”

His shoulders sank. If it were at all possible, he might have deflated even more than he already had. 

“But,” his aunt continued, putting a gentle hand on his arm. “It will help.” Her smile returned, it’s comforting warmth almost shining through once again, though the sadness in her eyes was still present. “Thank you, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes lowered, focusing on the weathered wood floors below. 

May gave his arm a gentle squeeze before she turned her attention back to the stew. 

Moments of silence passed as she continued chopping, her expression set in quiet contemplation. “You might see how much Mr. Harrington would give for Belle?” She suggested carefully, breaking the silence. “I’m sure he could use a nice nanny goat like her…”

He shook his head, not looking up. “Belle’s too old—and we wouldn’t get more than two bits for her at the butcher… and Daisy and Tulip are still in milk. We need those two.”

Again, May let out a tired sigh. “I guess you’re right.” Then, she chuckled to herself. “I’m not even gonna suggest askin’ if he’d take Karen. You’d sooner die than give that horse away.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Peter huffed out a laugh. “But we need her, too. And besides, Uncle Ben would’ve had a fit if he’d found out we tried to sell his girl.”

May laughed, though it bore a certain sadness. Her gaze moved up to the ceiling briefly, her mouth pressed into a thin line as she exhaled sharply through her nose. “I know,” She said softly after a moment. “I know.”

* * *

Like most nights since Ben’s death, dinner was spent in a heavy silence, the only sound between them being the metal of their spoons scraping against the wooden bowls. It was rabbit stew, just as it had been for the past few days. Peter looked forward to using the venison instead, gamey as it was. At least it was something different.

After dinner, the silence followed them into the parlor in front of the fire, Peter half-reading a book while May worked on sewing a patch into his jacket. 

It was the silences that were perhaps the most crushing. All they did was remind him of what their lives used to be like. Full of laughter and smiles and friendly mischief. There were times that life on the ranch was slow—no doubt about that—but it was always a peaceful quiet. 

Never like this.

The distant whinny of a horse just barely cut through the silence. 

“Thought you put Karen up?” May asked, briefly glancing up from her needle and thread. 

Peter’s brow pinched together in slight confusion. “I did.” 

The sound of faraway, steady galloping was almost inaudible, but it was enough to get their attention. May rose from her seat by the fire, gripping her apron as she moved to the window as the horse drew nearer and nearer.

Her expression remained calm, even as she realized what—or rather, _who_ —it was, before she quickly jumped from the window, suddenly frantic. “Peter! Come here! Quick!” She called him over, hastily pulling her wedding ring from her finger and shoving it into his hand. 

After Ben’s death, May hardly ever took off her ring. She always wore it, and Peter would always catch her staring at it, eyes distant and tired. But there was only one time she would take it off, even when Ben was alive. 

“I thought we had more time?” He asked in a quiet, yet strained tone. 

“So did I,” she said through gritted teeth as she heard the hooves stop in front of the house. 

Peter knew what to do. This was the routine. Every month. Instantly, he went to her bedroom, snatching Ben’s pocketwatch before putting both in a small cloth jewelry bag. He ran back to the parlor, kicking up one of the floorboards before nestling the valuables just under another plank. 

The sound of footsteps on the porch seemed to shake the house before the door flew open.

Mr. Baker was a large man. Big, dumb-looking. The perfect intimidator. A hired gun because the loan shark, Mr. Octavius—a much smaller, significantly less-intimidating man—couldn’t be bothered to come himself. His face seemed to be in a permanent scowl, dirtied from life in the wilderness. 

“Hello, Mrs. Parker,” the man greeted with a tip of his hat and a smug grin, his hands resting on his belt as he let himself into the home. “Good to see you.”

But May held her ground. “My husband’s not even cold in his grave, and yet you’ve come back here?”

It had only been a week.

Peter held his breath, folding his arms as he leaned against the kitchen doorframe.

This man had taken everything from them. They’d been forced to watch as this man—this bastard—beat the hell out of their Ben, demanding Mr. Octavius’s money, yelling and berating him. 

Sighing, Mr. Baker shook his head. “Now, I’m real sorry to hear ‘bout what happened, ma’am. Terrible business,” He started as he began to circle the room. “But... Mr. Parker owed us a lot of money, and well,” He paused, stopping just in front of Peter before turning back to face May. “Seein’ as he’s gone now, he’s left you with that debt.”

“You speak as if he had any other choice. How dare you?”

“You’re husband knew what he was gettin’ into when he borrowed that money. He knew the rules.”

“He didn’t have a choice!” May stared in angry disbelief. “He only took that money because he _had_ too! Ben gave _everything_ to pay your damn bills.”

“I’m sure he did,” Mr. Baker replied, voice drenched in condescension. “Now, please, where’s our money? I don’t wanna do nothin’ unkind.” He finished his last statement with a solid crack of his knuckles. 

“Well, we were under the impression that we had another week,” May shot back. “We don’t have it right now.”

Mr. Baker wasted no time. “Sell your house.”

“We already owe more than it’s worth.”

“Sell yourself! Sell your boy!” Mr. Baker spat. “I don’t care what you do. Just… give me that money.”

Without another word, May motioned for Peter to get the money. He startled, rushing to the cabinet on the other side of the room and grabbing the wooden clip and coin purse from the first drawer. 

All together; only eight dollars. 

Peter swallowed as he handed the money to the man, though he tried his best to hide his frayed nerves. He moved back, standing just over the loose floorboard. 

“Ah, yes, thank you,” Mr. Baker said, vicious smirk returning, but falling as he thumbed through the coins and bills. “Where’s the rest?”

May’s eyes narrowed, her jaw clenched. “That’s all there is.”

He shook his head, whistling. “I’m afraid this ain’t enough, ma’am. You gotta have somethin’ else. I’d hate to have to… _motivate_ you.”

“That’s all.” May bristled, though she still ignored the threat. “There ain’t nothin’ left, mister.”

Just then, as Peter shifted his weight, the loose floorboard creaked at an ungodly volume, piercing the air, nearly deafening to his own ears. May’s gaze shot to him, eyes wide, expression wrought with utter horror.

Mr. Baker froze, his head slowly turning to Peter. The man’s eyes searched before locking onto the floor beneath his feet. “You know, in houses like these,” Mr. Baker started as he stalked towards the younger man. “The floorboards can be real loose.”

Without warning, he shoved Peter out of the way, knocking him to the ground. 

May instantly moved to her nephew as he scrambled to stand. 

Mr. Baker stepped on one side of the floorboard, pushing it with the toe of his boot, his mouth quirking into a pleased grin as the other side came loose. He crouched down and reached in, smile only growing when he touched the rough cloth. He looked up with cold eyes. “You do know that lyin’ is a sin?” He rose, emptying the contents of the bag into his hand. “Wow,” he breathed, admiring the gold ring and watch. “These… these are _real_ nice. I’m guessin’ this was old Ben’s?” He held up the watch.

May started to speak, but Mr. Baker quickly cut her off. 

“Now… I don’t need to take both a’ these… I only really need one...” He started, tilting his head in contemplation, weighing his options. “Tell you what. Why don’t you pick which you get to keep?”

Peter felt as if his chest had been hit with a brick, all the wind knocked out of him. He looked to May, who stood in silent shock, playing with where her ring would have been on her hand. 

“Aunt May—” Peter started.

“—The pocketwatch.” May said quickly, voice strained. 

Peter’s gaze snapped to hers, his voice coming out in a pleading stammer. “But—But your ring—”

“—Quiet.” May shushed him. 

“Now, I see the both of you are havin’ some trouble agreein’,” Mr. Baker cut in, taking a step forward, voice dripping with insincerity. “I’d hate to cause any family discourse between you two. So, I’ll make it easy.” He paused, looking down at the ring and watch, waiting a moment before pocketing both. 

Peter felt nothing but white hot anger in that moment, watching the delight this man took in their misery, watching his aunt’s expression crumble. He could not see anymore, blinded by his own fury. 

“You Goddamn bastard!” He yelled before lunging at the man, but he was held back by May, her hold on him strong even as he struggled. 

“Peter, no!”

Mr. Baker laughed cruelly as he leaned in close. “You talk like that in front of your sweet, sweet, pretty little aunt? For shame.” He grabbed Peter’s face in one hand, grip rough and angry, voice a low growl. “You’re lucky I hold her in such high esteem. I’d hate to have to keep her in black.” With a final, harsh squeeze of Peter’s teeth, the man shoved him away, snapping Peter's head back.. 

“Thank you for your punctuality.” With a final tip of his hat, Mr. Baker made for the door. 

They both held their breath as the door shut behind him, only breathing out when they heard the final click.

And he was gone. 

Instantly, May spun Peter around, her eyes inspecting his face. “Are you alright?”

“‘M fine.” Peter tried to move away, dodging her hands. 

“You’re not fine, come on,” she pulled him to the couch, sitting him down before disappearing into the kitchen. She returned moments later with a cool, wet rag and handing it to him. “Keep this on your face.”

He didn’t fight her anymore, moving the cold cloth to his already bruising cheeks. He glanced up at her, chest tightening at her pained expression, the unshed tears in her eyes, before looking back down at the floor below. 

“Are _you_ alright?” He asked after another beat. 

He could hear her let out a sad chuckle. “Don’t worry about me, dear.” She reached out to smooth down his hair before adding quietly, “They’re just things…”

Peter knew that she didn’t mean what she said; that she was only saying that to make them both feel better, but it didn’t help him any, and he doubted it actually helped her. 

The crackle of the dying fire was the only sound in the room as they sat, neither saying another word. 

“Now,” May started, interrupting the silence. “I think we should both just get some rest. Everything will be fine,” She added, the last statement almost as a comfort to herself. She started for her bedroom, turning to speak again. “See you in the mornin’.”

Peter offered a single nod, keeping the cloth to his face. “Goodnight.”

And though his eyelids were heavy with weariness, his very limbs seeming to be made of lead, sleep did not come easily that night. Peter tossed and turned, unable to think about anything but what had happened. The way that bastard had just taken two of the most precious items in their lives; all with a smile on his damn face. 

He couldn’t help but feel that he’d let both his aunt and his uncle down. Realistically, he knew that he was no match for the burly Mr. Baker, that had his aunt not stopped him, he might have been dead. 

But that didn’t mean Mr. Baker didn’t deserve a punch in his ugly face.

And every time Peter closed his eyes, it was all he could see.

After hours and hours of restlessness, he decided enough was enough. Thinking that perhaps he’d try some light reading by the fireplace, he rose from the bed, tiptoeing across his room and opening the door into the parlor.

Though his hand froze over the doorknob, as he heard what sounded like crying coming from the other side. He slowly pulled the door open, feeling the seams of his already threadbare heart tear even more at the sight in front of him. 

His aunt sat, crumpled in the chair by the embers, her face in her hands as she quietly wept. Without hesitation or thought, Peter moved to her. And still, she wept, even as he pulled her into a comforting hug.

It was then, in that moment, that he knew something had to be done. 

He wasn’t sure how, and he wasn’t sure when, but he knew one thing:

That bastard had Ben’s watch and May’s ring, and Peter was getting both of them back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah sorry about that lmaooooo
> 
> EDIT: another note, I used a lot of Arthur's lines from the game as inspiration for Mr. Baker, but that he will not be Arthur's equivalent in this story. Forgot to put that earlier!
> 
> Follow me on twitter @smhomecomeme and on tumblr @spiderman-homecomeme


	3. Paying a Social Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOWDY FOLKS 
> 
> I am back with a semi-regular update! wow who am i
> 
> Thank you to @you-guys-are-losers and my sister for beta-ing this for me, and thank you all for the comments and kudos! 
> 
> A fair warning, this chapter contains suggestive dialogue and some suggestive content, but nothing explicit. Enjoy, partners!

Peter waited until he heard the faint _click_ of May’s bedroom door shut, just as the clock struck midnight, before he began to set out. He tiptoed across the house, careful not to step on the weakened spots of the floorboards as he neared the front door, pulling on his coat. 

Mr. Baker and his friends wouldn’t _keep_ the gold watch or ring, that was for sure. They were certainly worth a lot, but not much just sitting. Peter knew that he had to act quickly, as there was no telling how long Mr. Baker, Mr. Octavius, or that whole band of degenerates would wait before selling what had been taken just hours earlier. 

And Peter was not keen on finding out how long that would be.

The thought of one of those shady fences getting their filthy hands on May’s ring and Ben’s watch put a sharp and heavy ache in Peter’s chest and a bitter sickness in his belly. He couldn’t stand the thought.

This was not something that could wait another day. 

The chorus of crickets chirping filled the now-still night air as he stepped out onto the wooden porch and towards the old barn. Karen sleepily lifted her head at the slow creaking of the opening door, nickering gently in greeting, though the look in her eyes seemed to ask, _“What the hell are you doing here?”_

Peter muttered a soft, “hey there, girl,” before he grabbed the saddle and bridle, his hands shaking as he hastily fastened the buckles and tied the ties. As he led the mare out of the barn and into the chilled night, and as he put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up onto the saddle, the knot in his stomach twisted in a vice-like grip. 

It occurred to him again as he passed the gate and came upon the clearing that in his haste to leave, he had yet to come up with some kind of plan. There was no starting point. In truth, he had absolutely no idea where the hell Mr. Baker and his gang were at, only that they’d been in Big Valley for some time. In his twenty years on this earth, Peter had become used to feeling entirely lost as to what he was doing. Now, it held a different weight.

Say he never found Mr. Baker or his camp, or he waited too long. May’s things would be sold, and he’d return home empty handed. But say he _did_ find the camp after hours of searching. He was sure that it wasn’t as simple as wandering right on in and just taking back what was May’s. How would he even find the items? And what would he do should he be caught? He would surely be captured or killed. 

This was as dangerous as it was reckless—that much he knew. 

But that wouldn’t stop him from trying. 

Peter figured the best place to start would be Strawberry. While it was a fairly upstanding little town in the Big Valley of West Elizabeth and a known tourist destination for the rich, in his various trips to town over the past few months, he’d seen a number of what he could assume to be Baker’s friends hanging around the Tracker Hotel after dark. “Hotel,” was in the name, but it might have been a bit of a stretch. He and everyone else in the entire county knew that it was more of a saloon than anything; it was a place often frequented by drunkards, home to working girls, and a den to criminals of all sorts. 

It wasn’t a place Peter visited or thought about very often, if at all.

But it was certainly worth the look. 

The streets of Strawberry were empty, the shops having closed much earlier in the evening. Most of town was asleep at this time of night. All was silent and dark, save for the glowing lights, lively piano music, and boisterous laughter from within the saloon. A few patrons stumbled drunkenly out of the swinging doors, loosely hanging on to each other as they cackled uncontrollably. 

Overwhelming insecurity reared its ugly head again as Peter stopped to hitch his horse, his steps feeling heavier and heavier as he slowly approached the white-wood steps leading into the hotel. The other horses tied up outside stood quietly, though one of them stood out in particular. A buckskin gelding, lazily hanging his head. Peter could have been very wrong, but he swore that was the same horse he’d seen Mr. Baker riding away on after each of his “visits” to their ranch. 

For the briefest moment, he was overwhelmed with a sense of relief at finding his quarry so quickly, followed by _mounting dread_ at finding his quarry so quickly. In all honesty, he had not expected to get this far tonight. 

While he had gotten there, and while there was a chance that the collector himself was in the saloon, Peter still had no plan. No idea what he was going to do if he walked through those doors and saw that devil standing right in front of him. He had to be smart. 

He couldn’t just barge in there.

Once again, the pooling dread and trepidation in his gut only seemed to intensify.

How much time he spent just at the bottom of the steps, his hands twisting together, mouth pressed into a thin, focused line, he was uncertain—though it was enough for the piano player to start a new rag. 

After another moment’s contemplation, he approached what he assumed was Mr. Baker’s horse. The gelding’s head rose, nostrils slightly flared, ears pricked forward at the stranger. Peter tried soothing him, his hands held out and his voice low as he neared the animal’s side. 

It took little to no time at all to earn the horse’s trust. He quickly searched the saddle bags, though he cursed silently upon finding nothing. Perhaps he _had_ underestimated Mr. Baker’s mental capacity. 

No luck there.

Steeling himself, Peter moved once again to the porch. His own steps thundered in his ears as he approached the entry before stopping short at the top of the steps. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart before pushing himself forward with a sense of forced-confidence. The smell of cigarettes and booze assaulted his nose, the drunken yelling and hollering grew all the more loud. The chorus of conversations and laughter filled the room to the brim so he could barely hear himself think. 

Before he could take in the sights for too long, Peter moved away from the entrance, instead taking up a spot along the side wall that gave him a good vantage point to search from. He scanned the room, brow furrowed in concentration as he searched for any familiar signs. 

However, it turned out that the dreaded Parker-luck was kind enough in leaving him be that night. 

Amongst the crowd leaning against the bar, stood three men, chatting to themselves. The familiar, big, rough-looking one, faced away from him; he was a companied by a smaller, yet still big and dumb looking feller, who downed two shots of whiskey one after another; and finally, a smaller, scrawnier guy with patchy facial hair. 

The pit in Peter’s stomach grew.

Especially when the biggest one turned to clap the tiny one on the back with a loud roar of laugh.

There was no doubt about it. 

That was Baker.

Mr. Baker stepped away shaking his head, beer in hand, his attention caught by a blonde working girl in green standing against a wooden pillar a few feet away. Peter watched as they talked back and forth, the woman giggling as she reached out to take his hand. 

The idea came to Peter suddenly, though it wasn’t one he was too keen on trying.It wasn’t a good idea, not in the slightest.

But hell, it was an idea.

If Mr. Baker sought the company of the blonde, and maybe they went upstairs for some privacy, then perhaps Peter could sneak in while he was... _distracted..._ and just take—

“Hi, _darlin’_.”

A saccharine sweet voice that was suddenly next to Peter caused him to nearly jump out of his skin. He turned, seeing a relatively pretty working girl grinning wickedly at him, a cigarette between her fingers. She tilted her head, chuckling at his reaction. 

“Oh, uh—hello,” Peter spat out, eyes shifting between her and his target on the other side of the saloon. 

“Well, ain’t you cute,” she added with a sultry shimmy of her shoulders as she eyed him up and down. “You lookin’ for _some company?”_

Her true meaning wasn’t lost on Peter. Both his aunt and uncle had told him the realities of the ladies working in these saloons. He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck, still keeping one eye on Mr. Baker, who was now being led up the stairs by the blonde woman.

“These thighs…” She started, glancing down briefly, tugging at her skirt with her free hand, before looking back up at him under her lashes, not giving him a chance to respond just yet. “They could squeeze the life outta you, boy.”

Peter nearly choked, his face turning a deep shade of red as he struggled for an answer. “Um—I…” He coughed. “No—No thank you… ma’am.”

He chanced another swift glance, seeing just as Mr. Baker and the woman disappeared around a corner. 

“I’m… I’m… actually meetin’ a friend… upstairs.” He breathed out, his voice coming out high and strained. 

Her smile widened, and she threw him a wink. “Oh, sure, hon. You know where to find me if ya change your mind.”

Peter only gave her a hasty nod before scrambling away. Though, he slowed as he reached the base of the stairs, realizing that just running up the steps like a chicken with its head cut off would raise suspicion. So he tried his best to remain calm, even as his own heartbeat drummed unbearably loudly in his ears. He was sweating despite the cold spring night air outside, his vision unsteady as he climbed the staircase. He ignored the other propositions and come-ons from more of the working girls as he neared the same corner Mr. Baker had disappeared behind moments before. 

But he would not let the fear festering within overtake him. No, he wouldn’t turn back now. He _couldn’t._

He had come to that saloon for a reason, and he’d be damned if he was gonna quit right then.

Around the corner was a long hallway, doors to some of the many bedrooms of the hotel on either side. It was clear to him that the only way he’d be able to tell which room Mr. Baker and his friend was in would be either listening at the door or just going right in. The latter was not ideal; he didn’t wanna risk seeing anymore nonsense than he absolutely had to.

Or, he figured, he could just ask around.

The first man he’d asked had just shot him a nasty look and scoffed, claiming he hadn’t seen anyone. Next, he asked another bar patron, though this one only stared drunkenly back at him, seemingly confused by the question.

Finally, after a series of exceptionally unhelpful persons, he approached a red-haired woman sitting daintily, fanning herself. 

“Uh, ‘scuse me, ma’am?”

A smirk played on her bright red lips, her eyes trailing him from head to toe. “Ooh, I know a heartbreaker when I see one. What can I do for you, sugar?”

“You by any chance see a real big guy and a blonde lady in a—a green dress up here?”

Her smile fell, her expression taking on one of minor annoyance as she snapped her folding fan. “You mean Helen? Yeah, I seen her. She went into one a’ those rooms with a mean lookin’ feller just a little bit ago.”

Peter let out a harsh breath, though he kept his composure. “You happen to know which room?”

The redhead eyed him warily. 

Peter had never really begged for anything in his life, always content with what life had given him, but he was ready to get on his knees and pray if he couldn’t get some kind of answer. 

_“Please,_ ma’am.” 

She stared at him awhile longer, her brow quirked as she gave him another once over. After a stretch of silence, she rolled her eyes, caving under his pleading gaze. “I think I saw ‘em go into 2a.”

“Oh, thank you!” Peter never thought he would ever feel the urge to jump with joy at something like that. He noticed the strange look she was giving him at his elation. Peter quickly composed himself, clearing his throat. “He’s a friend a’ mine,” he lied. “Just need to speak with him, that’s all.”

The woman threw a hand in the air, briefly looking away from him. “Listen, I ain’t judgin’. No need to explain yourself. Whatever you wanna ‘talk’ ‘bout with him ain’t none of my business.”

“Ain’t like that—” Peter stopped himself, seeing as there was no way to talk himself out of it. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before thanking the woman again and heading back into the hallway. 

Peter froze just as he reached room 2a, his nerves once again almost getting the best of him. He could already hear the lewd noises coming from within, and truly, he could scarcely believe what he was doing; about to sneak into a room while a man was in the middle of being serviced and stealing said man’s coin purse. 

He would certainly not be repeating any of those details to his aunt. 

And what was he to do if they immediately saw him? What if the bed was right next to the door? What kind of chance was he even taking? What if he made too much noise and got himself caught? What if he wasn’t fast enough?

So many questions and doubts plaguing his already troubled mind.

But again, he steeled himself, shoving the fears and qualms away and gripping the doorknob with determination. 

Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned the knob.

Noises he had heard from the other side of the door were louder now, the harsh grunts and dramatic moans. The creak of the door as he carefully pushed it open caused him to freeze, but the sound was covered by a squeal from Helen, thankfully. He peeked around the side of the door, nearly letting the breath he’d been holding out as he saw that the bed was on the other side of the room, Mr. Baker’s bare back and rear facing him as the blonde writhed underneath. 

Peter grimaced at the sight, unsure if he’d ever be able to get the image to leave his memories. Shaking his head as if exorcising it from his mind, he continued. He crouched as he squeezed through the crack in the door, gently shutting it behind him as he snuck into the room. 

He wasn’t sure how much longer he had, so he had to act fast. 

Desperately, he scanned the room, looking for anything that may have looked like it may have belonged to Baker. 

Though he refrained, he felt like celebrating when he saw the lone satchel next to the open window just to the right of him. Quick and quiet as a spider, he moved to it, wasting no time in searching the bag. 

At first he found nothing, save for a few different wads of cash and various handwritten notes. He had almost begun to lose hope, searching for any other clue in the room, until he felt that familiar gold plating. 

Without a second thought, he snatched the ring and the watch, his hands trembling as he shoved them both into his coat pocket silently as he could. 

It was clear, judging from the urgent tone that the noises the two on the bed were making took on, that Peter’s time was running out. And quick. 

He glanced back to the door, doubting that he could make it in time without making any sound. 

But as he felt the cool Spring breeze on his face from the open window, he had another idea. 

Once again, it wasn’t a great idea.

But it was an idea. 

Perhaps if it had been under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have done it; he would have had much more hesitation, but in that moment, jumping out of the window and onto the roof seemed the only logical choice. 

Still keeping quiet, he steathily moved across the rooftop, looking for a way down. His heart hammered in his chest as he ran, his breath labored as he reached a corner that led down to a landing. He jumped, tucking his legs as he hit the wooden planks of the raised deck. The sounds of the saloon died under the roar of his blood rushing in his ears as he vaulted over the railing and onto the soft mud and grass below. 

He had made it.

And his smile felt natural. Real. 

Not wanting to relax too soon, however, he rushed to Karen, quickly untying her reins from the post and practically leaping on her. With a gentle kick, he urged her to a gallop, making his way home. 

\--

He had made it without any trouble, quietly putting Karen away at just past three in the morning. 

Walking up to the house, he felt lighter than air, his pleased grin was uncontrollable as he opened the door, leaving his coat hanging. He dressed for bed once more, and found himself drifting off to sleep faster than he had in a long while. 

Not three hours later, he awoke, either from the sweet chirping of birds outside his window or his excitement to share his news and gift with May, he did not know. He leapt from his bed, rushing into the kitchen to find his aunt slicing a loaf of bread. 

“Mornin’,” she greeted quietly, only looking up for a moment. “I put the coffee on.” 

“Thank you.” Peter planted a kiss on her cheek before moving to grab a cup and a slice of bread. 

Again, she looked up at him, eyeing the bruises that had formed on his face. “How’re the bruises?”

“‘S’alright. Nothin’ that won’t heal.” Peter shrugged nonchalantly, taking a big bite of his bread slice. 

Her brows pinched together in concern, but she didn’t push any further. 

“I got a surprise for you,” Peter blurted, unable to contain himself any longer. 

His aunt paused, this time looking up at him in slightly amused confusion. “A surprise?”

“I’ll be right back!” With that, Peter rushed out of the kitchen and to his coat hanging by the door, pulling the items he’d stolen back just the night before. He held them behind his back as he returned to his aunt, pleased grin making its return on his face as she watched him expectantly.

“What have you got, you silly boy?” May asked through a chuckle, placing a hand on her hip, her eyes twinkling in amusement for the first time all week.

“These!”

But the humored expression quickly turned into one of pure, utter horror when he showed what he had in his hands. She gasped, covering her face. “Oh, Peter… Peter…” 

Said Peter was thoroughly confused. “What? I went and got ‘em back for you.”

“Peter…”

“What is it?”

Her eyes seized on the ring desperately before she finally looked at him again, behind her eyes a concoction of anger and disappointment. Shaking her head, her hands fell. 

“Peter, you damned _fool!”_

At this, Peter grew speechless. That had certainly not been the reaction he had expected. “What—What are you…” He breathed, his voice weak and full of defeat. “What you mean?”

“What on earth made you think this would be a good idea?” May asked, exasperated.

He couldn’t help but look down, his knuckles turning white at just how tightly he clenched his fists, now reduced to a child being scolded. “I… I thought it would make you happy…”

“No, it doesn’t make me happy!” May said. “Peter, don’t you realize what you’ve done? Mr. Baker and his men… They’re gonna realize what you did, and believe me—they ain’t gonna be happy!—and they’re gonna come back here lookin’ for those things and _you!”_

“Aunt May! He’s not gonna know I did it!” Peter shot back defensively. “He was with a lady at the time... maybe he’ll think she did it, or somethin’!”

“PETER! You put a poor girl in danger?” May balked. “Lord help me, we raised you to know better, to do better, to _be_ better.” She stood there, confounded, staring at him as if she didn’t know him. “And it doesn’t matter who Mr. Baker thinks did it. He lost the payment, but he’s still gonna be blamin’ us! We still have to pay!” She started to pace the room. “What are we gonna do? What if those men come back? What if—”

“—Or maybe he’ll think he just lost or… or dropped ‘em—”

“—He’s gonna kill us this time, I’m sure of it—”

“—Aunt May!”

May stopped in her place, staring back at him with wide, worried eyes. 

He stood silent for a moment, looking down at his feet as he struggled to find and steady his breath. “I’m…” 

Perhaps his aunt was right. The more he thought about it, the more he realized just how dumb and irresponsibly reckless it had been, going after a debt collector the way he had. No matter which way he put it, no matter who was blamed for stealing the items back, Peter had put them both in danger. 

He released a shaky sigh, finding himself unable to make eye contact with his aunt. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was anaemic, almost inaudible as he spoke, heart cracking as the words came out of his mouth.

And it shattered when he heard May simply leave the room, her footsteps and her tears growing silent. 

\--

It had been nearly a week since that morning in the kitchen. May had been quiet the rest of the day, short and curt with him. But as the days went on, things slowly seemed to go back to their new normal. 

She had reminded him that very night that she did love him as they told each other goodnight. 

In spite of her words, however, Peter still felt the pain and fear in her voice. 

And even as things became “normal” once again, he couldn’t help but be reminded of his stupid mistake every time he looked at her face. He had to put the ring and watch away and out of sight, as they carried too much weight now. 

He had, in a single night, made their lives even worse than they already were. 

It seemed clear as day to them that Mr. Baker would come back, and he would come back angrier than ever. They were constantly living in the fear of when he would return, every sound, every rider that came by set them on edge. But as days passed without sign of the loan shark, the more at ease they became. Perhaps Peter was right; perhaps Mr. Baker assumed he lost it. Or, a more alarming thought, what if Mr. Baker thought Helen the working girl took it? And punished her for it… 

Peter’s guilt-ridden imagination didn’t fail to show him gruesome images of Helen’s pretty face bloody and blue.

He felt sick of the situation, but mostly sick with himself. 

What kind of man was he?

One evening, about a week-and-half after that fateful night, when a lone man on horseback came calling. 

May had been out working in her garden, Peter helping, when the stranger arrived. He was young, fairly well-dressed, about Peter’s age, with a too-charming grin and a polite air. 

“May Parker?” The young man asked as he dismounted his chestnut horse. 

May rose warily, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“Ah, yes,” the stranger grinned from ear to ear, looking over to her nephew. “And you must be Peter.”

“Yes, sir...” Peter responded, unsure.

“How can we help you?” May repeated, this time more insistent. 

The young man looked down at his boots briefly before glancing around the ranch, almost as if inspecting it. “I believe you know a friend a’ mine? A Mr. William Baker?”

May and Peter froze at the name. 

“Well, he tells me that you’ve—” he pointed right at Peter—“stolen something from him. I’m just here to ask a few questions, if ya don’t mind.”

May placed herself in front of Peter. “We most certainly would mind, Mr… Whatever the hell your name is.”

“Oh, well damn. Where are my manners?” The man chuckled to himself. “Name’s Harry Osborn, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr @spiderman-homecomeme and on twitter @smhomecomeme <3


	4. Money Lending and Other Sins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well howdy pardners!! we're back with another chapter! Sorry this took so long, but with Spideychelle Week and my other WIPs that have magically appeared from my brain, this story kinda took a backseat for a little bit! Updates are still gonna be a little long for this one, but I'll try to keep them as regular as possible! Once again, thank you to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! it makes me so happy seeing you guys enjoying this story! 
> 
> Here we go!! yee haw

There was an effortless charm to this Harry feller, an easy smile and gentle manner; hardly the outlaw type. Though, as seemingly kind and innocent as this man was, there was still something about him that put Peter on edge and put a twisting knot in his stomach. How was this man going to make them pay? Mr. Osborn wasn’t as big and dumb looking as Mr. Baker—he was much leaner, shorter—but there was no telling what he’d do to get what he wanted. 

Peter’s eyes darted to the cupboard and back. 

Harry removed his hat, placing it against his chest as he crossed the threshold into the house—somehow talking his way in. His eyes were full of sorrow and shame as he looked to May. “Mrs. Parker, I would firstly like to apologize on behalf of my associate, Mr. Baker. He no doubt crossed a line, takin’ both your watch and ring.”

The grip on Peter’s stomach tightened. It was hard for him to tell how May would react. Her eyes were cold, mouth set, arms folded in front of her as she silently listened to this stranger. 

“And,” Harry continued, taking a cautious step forward, his voice lowering, expression wrought with concern. “I’m terribly sorry to hear of your dear husband’s passin’. Truly, I am.” He shook his head, letting out a weighted sigh as his gaze fell to the ground. “Bad business.”

“Don’t need your pity,” May said through gritted teeth. 

Harry looked up with wide, innocent eyes. “Course not. Course not…” He trailed off, gesturing to the dining table, silently asking for permission. At May’s curt nod, he pulled out the chair, sitting down in one careful motion. “Now, as I said before, Mr. Baker seems to think you’ve—” he continued, looking to Peter, “—stolen somethin’ a’ his...”

“I didn’t.” Peter rushed to defend himself, hiding the lie under thinly veiled innocence. 

_Wasn’t Mr. Baker’s to steal in the first place._

Harry paused, his expression torn, taking a moment to look at Peter. “I believe you,” Harry said after a beat, nodding slowly. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for my associates. But _I_ believe you.”

Peter couldn’t help but pass a wary glance to Aunt May, but she kept her gaze forward. Not wanting to push their luck, however, he kept his mouth shut. 

Harry leaned forward on the table, bracing himself on his forearms, looking up at May and Peter. “I also came here to tell you that Mr. Octavius—the man who lended your husband the money—well, he wanted me to come back here and get that watch and ring back, but...” He shook his head. 

“I argued and argued with him, tellin’ him to just leave it be, give you a few more weeks. Even cancel the whole damn thing, seein’ how much trouble Mr. Baker put the two of you through. After all, it’s just money. But, Mr. Octavius wouldn’t budge.”

May opened her mouth to respond, but Harry continued.

“But...” His solemn frown began to fade. “After some convincin’, we came to an agreement. You keep your things, and, well—consider this month paid.”

May’s stony expression fell, though she remained skeptical at the sudden generosity. “What?”

“You keep your ring and your husband’s watch,” Harry said with a warm grin. “And we’ll see you next month.”

“I don’t understand—”

“We know times are hard, it’s been a bad winter,” he continued, offering the widow a reassuring nod. “And considerin’ this ain’t even your debt in the first place—”

“What’s the catch?” Peter found himself asking, unable to believe anything he was hearing. 

Harry looked up at him, a warm smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head. “Just the neighborly thing to do. It turns out one a’ my associates was feelin’ generous and donated some a’ their own money.”

Peter and May were silent, neither of them able to form words as they stood staring dumbfounded.

Harry spoke again, tone gentle and polite. “Ma’am, I hate to ask but is there any way I could get a drink?”

May startled, blinking in surprise. “Oh. Uh… Yes. Yes. I’ll go put some tea on.”

“Thank you,” Harry smiled at her, offering a genuine nod as he turned to watch her leave the room. 

Peter couldn’t help but feel a sense of ease wash over him, an uncontrollable grin tugging at the corner of his lips. Things were looking up again. 

Harry turned back around to face him, his warm expression falling instantly into one of playful skepticism. “Did you really jump outta a window?”

Peter felt his stomach leap into his throat. “Uh—What you—what’re you talkin’ about?”

“Oh, now don’t play dumb with me now, Mr. Parker,” the stranger tilted his head, squinting as he pointed a finger. “By the way, you got a plan for how you’re gonna pay us back?”

“I—I thought—” 

“What? You thought we was gonna just forget all about it?” Harry laughed, a teasing, almost cruel sound. “That you could could just steal from one a’ us and get away with it? You didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothin’,” Harry cut him off. “Listen, Peter. I like you.” He said after a pause, his tone earnest, yet still bearing a hint of condescension. “Don’t know you, but I like you. It takes a certain kinda man to steal from dangerous outlaws.”

“But how do you know—”

“Mr. Baker’s… _friend_? The one he was in the room with?” Harry hummed pointedly. “She saw you. Didn’t say nothin’ at first, till Baker went back to have a little chat with her. She was the first suspect, obviously.”

Peter’s blood turned to ice. “Is she—”

“She’s fine,” Harry assured him, not taking any time to elaborate. “Now, lemme ask again.” Harry leaned closer, eyes gleaming. 

“You gotta plan for payin’ us back?”

“But—But you said—” Peter couldn’t help but stammer, an unbearable heat bubbling in his chest. He clenched his hands into tightly-wound fists in an effort to stop the shaking. Letting out a short breath, he continued, trying to remain steady. “You said this month was paid. That one a’ your friends paid it.”

“Oh, that was me. I paid it.” His mouth pulls into a quick smile. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Peter sank into his chair, staring dumbly at the man across from him. “You paid it?”

“I just said that, didn’t I?” Harry quipped. “Now, as for payin’ me back. Seein’ as you ain’t got any idea a’ your own...”

“I don’t have any money—” Peter rushes out desperately, his voice hushed as to not alarm May. 

Harry held his hands up. “No need for money. I don’t want that,” he assured, shaking his head, waving his hand dismissively. Then, a slow grin tugged at his lips as he eyed Peter carefully, his gaze calculating. “I need… A favor.”

Somehow, the twisting in Peter’s stomach worsened; he blanched, sputtering out a response. “A-a favor?” He swallowed, knowing that whatever favor an outlaw might need probably wasn’t a pleasant—or legal—one. 

“What kinda favor?”

Harry’s smile faded, his expression growing serious. “See, some bastards went and stole somethin’ a mine, and I need some help gettin’ it back. Before you ask, it’s perfectly safe. No one’s gonna be gettin’ hurt. It’s just a quick in and out.” Harry paused, seeming to contemplate whether or not to continue. “But I need it back. It’s somethin’ real important. Somethin’ my father gave to me.”

There was a far-off look in Harry’s eyes as he spoke, a distant sadness as he glanced away that Peter couldn’t help but relate to. Against his better judgement, he began to feel pity for the stranger that had come into their home. But almost as soon as the feeling had come, it vanished. 

Instantly, Peter steeled himself. “How do I know I can trust you? How do I know this ain’t some kinda trick?”

As quickly as the dreamy look entered Harry’s eyes, it was gone. “Well…” Sharpness crept into his gaze as he sat forward, a certain edge to his voice. 

“I figure you ain’t got any other choice, friend.”

Peter found that he couldn’t argue. Truly, he was seeing that this might be the only way out. What might happen to him—or to May—if he declined the offer? While Harry might have seemed like a kind, gentle soul upon the first impression, it was clear now that he was not a man to accept _no_. 

But then again, seeing as this man was an outlaw, Peter was finding it increasingly difficult to trust anything he said, even if there _was_ no other choice. Harry had said that no one would be getting hurt, but Peter couldn’t help but wonder how much truth there was to his words. 

Men like Harry didn’t get where they were by taking easy jobs.

The sound of May’s approaching footsteps from the kitchen interrupted the heavy silence in the room. The antique, scratched tea tray rattled against the top of the table as she set it down. She started to pour Harry’s cup when he stopped her politely, offering to do it on his own, his pointed stare to Peter going unnoticed by the aunt. 

Peter couldn’t hear for the rest of the evening as the slow, still tense conversation between May and Harry muted underneath his warring thoughts. Running with an outlaw was dangerous. Harry was a criminal, no matter which way he put it. He could say as much as he wanted about the job being safe, but he and his associates were still a no-good group of degenerates—any trouble they got into would no doubt follow them right out. 

Then again, Peter supposed that, in a way, Uncle Ben, Aunt May, and he had always found a way to wander right into trouble. 

Harry told him just before leaving—as May was putting the tea away—to meet him in Black Bone Forest that night. He or one of his associates would be there to meet him and lead him back to their camp hidden in the foothills. Then, he left with a firm tip of his hat, and a warm smile at Aunt May. 

Something told Peter that he’d be seeing the stranger again very soon.

The house felt cold, even as Peter sat by the hearth with his chin tucked into his hand as he stared into the flames. He only offered short, tired replies to May’s attempts at conversation, unable to bring himself to think of anything to say. His mind was too distracted by the gnawing in his gut. 

Peter had known what he had to do as soon as she shook that man’s damn hand. He also wasn’t keen on finding out what would happen should he choose to _not_ help Harry with this favor. The thinly veiled threat had been clear as day. This wasn’t something that he could say no to. 

He was glad that May seemed so at ease, watching as she sewed a patch into one of his old shirts, her hands relaxed for the first time in weeks as she worked the needle and thread. Although there was still a sadness to her smile as she looked at him, the expression wasn’t as pained as it had been. As Peter watched her, his own heart ached for what was to come, along with the crippling uncertainty of what would become of their debt and themselves after this favor was completed. Even worse was knowing that there was nothing he could do about it. 

_The only way to go was forward._

“Peter, honey?” May’s soft voice, along with the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder, pulled him from his thoughts. “Are you alright?”

He looked up at her with tired, weary eyes. 

And what would he tell her? She would worry half to death if he just disappeared in the middle of the night without a single word. It would kill her. But then, he couldn’t even bear the thought of leaving her with _any_ kind of warning. 

What if something were to happen to him? What if something were to happen to _her?_

Peter coughed into his hand. “Sure. Sure. Just—” He heaved a sigh. “Not feelin’ well, is all.” His only comfort was knowing that this was one thing he had to do. One favor. After, he could come home. 

Aunt May gave a sympathetic nod, using the back of her hand to feel his forehead, before combing back his hair. “You’re a little warm. Why don’t you turn in early tonight?” 

It couldn’t have been past eight-thirty, though Peter didn’t argue with her. Wordlessly, he rose with a weak “G’night”, his feet dragging on the old wooden floors as me made his way to his bedroom. He found that he could not sleep, as exhausted as he felt, his heart heavy and his stomach still in knots. He waited until he heard the soft click of her door shutting, just past nine o’ clock, and even then, another hour to make sure she was fully asleep, before he started getting ready. He had a single bag, one that had belonged to his uncle, in which he packed what little clothes he had. After he dressed, he moved to his desk, pulling a piece of parchment and an old pen. 

His hand hovered above the paper for what felt like years, wavering as he thought of what he should even write, where he should even begin. He knew that he couldn’t tell her the truth of where he was going and what he was doing. He wasn’t ever one to lie to his aunt and uncle, but now, even as it broke him, he knew that it was the only way. 

Hastily scribbling down his note, his writing sloppy in his shaking, before pulling his jacket on and swinging his bag over his shoulder. _Found a work opportunity up North. Will be back when I can._ His heart thundered in his ears as he walked into the sitting room, his breath catching as he left the note to May on the mantlepiece before grabbing Ben's rifle.

Without giving it another thought, he made for the front door, stepping out into the springtime’s night air. It was chilled, the wind nipping lightly at his nose and cheeks. Wrapping his jacket tightly around him, he made himself walk to the stables. 

Karen nickered upon seeing him, her head lazily rising as he opened the barn doors. If he was going to get any goodbye, it would be from his horse. 

As much as he wanted to take this piece of home with him, he knew he couldn’t leave May without her. 

In spite of the tightening of his chest and the rock in his belly, Peter smiled weakly, huffing in amusement at the mare. “Hey, girl,” he murmured fondly, his hand coming up to pet her gently on the nose. “You take care of Aunt May, alright? I’ve got somewhere I need to be for a few days. It’s okay, though. I’ll be back soon. You won’t even realize I’m gone.”

His gut told him he was lying to himself. 

With a final pat on her neck, he picked his bag up again, and Peter didn’t look back as he closed the barn doors behind him. 

Each step out of the gate was more painful than the last. He knew Black Bone Forest. It was a little over a mile’s walk from the house. On the occasion that Ben would take him to Owanjila Dam to go fishing, they’d go through there. Sometimes there were wolves and even the occasional big cat or grizzly, the thought making his hands move to the rifle strap across his chest. He wondered how far the camp was from their meeting spot, if they would still be in West Elizabeth. 

As he reached the bare trees, his footsteps slowed, the realization dawning on him that he truly didn’t know what he was getting himself into. While Harry had explained the favor, he failed to give any specifics—at least any that were actually useful. Though he knew that there was no turning back, it didn’t stop the creeping trepidation welling within him. 

There was a sinking feeling, then, as he saw the distant silhouette of a man standing beside a grazing horse. As he got closer, he saw a second horse, tall and inky black with white socks, pawing it’s hoof impatiently. The man looked up from under his hat, putting out his cigarette and climbing onto his gelding as Peter approached. 

“Pleasure to see you again, Mr. Parker,” Harry said smoothly, untethering the other horse’s bridle from his own saddle. “Glad to see that you can use your brain.”

Ignoring that last comment, Peter pointed to the new animal. “The horse?”

“You sure ask a lotta questions,” Harry chuckled, waving his hand. Seeing that he was serious, his laughter faded. “Feller tried to rob me little ways back. So—well, you know…”

Even in the black night, it was easy to see Peter’s confused expression. 

“I shot him,” Harry clarified.

The look of confusion melted into one of horror, but before Peter could protest, Harry cut him off. 

“—I’m kiddin’. I’m kiddin’. Calm down.” 

He shook his head, leaning forward on the saddle. “Borrowed ‘er from one a’ my friends. Figured you wouldn’t wanna leave your aunt without a horse. Say hello to Kitty.”

Kitty snorted in frustration. 

“Oh—” Peter faltered, watching as the young mare shifted on her hooves. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Harry replied, giving a single nod. “Now come on,” he gestured for Peter to move. “Let’s head to camp before any a’ these big cats start gettin’ ideas.”

Peter mounted the new horse, feeling the slightest bit unsteady as he settled into the saddle. Though, as Harry clicked his tongue, urging his gelding forward, Kitty followed suit. The two of them rode in silence for a time, the only sounds being that of the nature surrounding them, accompanied by the gentle thud of hooves against the dirt road as they walked along. On a normal night, Peter might have marveled at the beauty of the open, star-filled sky above him or the snow capped mountains on the horizon. He might have stopped to listen to the calls of bull elk in the trees. But, as it had been in the recent weeks, what once brought him peace and comfort now brought only emptiness. 

Peter figured there was one thing that might ease his plagued mind: knowing what the hell he was doing. “Mr. Osborn—”

“—Harry’s just fine.”

“Harry,” Peter corrected himself. “You mind tellin’ me about this favor I’m doin’ you?”

Harry was quiet a moment before speaking again. “Well, I’ll be there. And I’m sure I could get Ned or Miles to come. Those boys are always the first on their horses for this type a’ job—” 

“But what’ll I be doin’ exactly?” Peter pressed. “Who am I stealin’ from?”

The smile Harry threw over his shoulder was filled with mischief. 

“You ever heard a’ Wilson Fisk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i get a yee haw
> 
> thanks for reading!!


	5. Liars, Cheats, and Other Proud Americans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEE HAW WE'RE BACK!!
> 
> So sorry for the long wait on this one guys. As you know, we had lots of different writing events over the year and this story just took a backburner for the time. But here's this chapter!! It's a little bit of a filler, so apologies for that, but the next chapter brings us to our FIRST MISSION!!! YAY
> 
> Thank you for your patience, partners! I hope you enjoy!

The pit in Peter’s stomach only grew as he followed Harry deeper into Black Bone Forest, so much so that he feared it would swallow him whole. Even as one who knew the land, who grew up in the lavender fields and rushing streams of Big Valley, he could not tell where this stranger was taking him. 

Harry stayed mostly silent during the ride, every so often humming a gentle tune to his gelding, smiling up at the sky. How one could be in such high spirits after exploiting two poor folk was truly lost on Peter. He had seen true evil in Mr. Baker, but he had expected this new feller to at least show some sense of respect for the situation. 

The nonchalance this man possessed only fueled the fear within Peter. It set a rising bile in his throat that he couldn’t seem to swallow. 

It was hard, given that Harry had still failed to mention where this camp was. He dodged every question, like an expert con man. Part of Peter knew why, of course. Why tell him now when he could easily run back and find the law and send ‘em out there? 

Harry was smart in that way, he had to give him that. 

The unease sank in his chest as they came to the bridge on Owanjila, crossing over into Tall Trees. 

Harry had not mentioned they’d be crossing the Upper Montana. 

Peter could feel his heart heavy in his chest, each beat thumping as loud as his horse’s hooves on the dirt. The forest around them was covered in a thick fog, low-hanging branches just barely grazing the top of his hat as they followed the winding trail deeper into the trees. The surrounding quiet was not peaceful. The air was far too still, too dense, the only sounds being the cracking of sticks and leaves, the distant rumble of a black bear cutting through the mist. He could feel the slight, near unhinged twitch of Kitty’s muscles underneath him, almost urging them forward. But he ignored her impatient chewing at the bit, keeping her steady as best he could.

Harry also still hadn’t elaborated on why they were stealing from this Wilson Fisk he’d been talking about. All he’d said was that he was a bad man who led a group of equally bad men. 

But, of course, Harry and his friends weren’t like that, he’d promised. 

Fisk had apparently stolen something very near and dear to the gang’s heart. There had been a code, and Wilson—or Willie, as Harry had been affectionately calling him—had taken that code and strangled it and beaten it to a pulp. 

It seemed easy enough, Peter tried to reason, even if the stolen item in particular was still a mystery. If he could sneak into a room while a man’s getting serviced by a working girl, and only get caught by the girl, then maybe he could do this, whatever it was. 

He could handle whatever this stranger threw it him. 

Though, he knew it was a fool’s thought and hope. Whatever this man had planned, it couldn’t be as simple as just stealing one small trinket. 

“So,” Peter started, a scratch in his voice from lack of use. He cleared his throat, shifting in the saddle. “You gonna tell me what I’m stealin’ yet? Or… Or why you even need my help?”

Harry looked over his shoulder, the slight uptick of his mouth barely visible under the lantern light. “Y’sure ask a lotta questions, friend.” 

Peter’s stare hardened, his jaw setting. 

A light chuckle came from Harry as he looked ahead. “I told you already. Willie—or, I guess, his boys. Lord knows that man’s never done nothin’ on his own.” He huffed. “Anyway, he stole somethin’ he never had any business stealin’. And we’re just… takin’ back what’s ours.” 

“But why do you need me?” Peter pressed, frustration welling within him. “Can’t be just any small thing if your askin’ a stranger for help.” 

And again, Harry looked over his shoulder, a glint in his eyes that Peter could not place. “You’re right,” was all he said in reply. 

Nothing else. 

“But need I remind you that the only reason your in this is because you couldn’t leave well enough alone with Mr. Baker?” 

Anger flared in Peter’s chest, the heat rising to his eyes. “I had to.” 

“You had to?” Harry had the audacity to laugh. “You had to put your aunt in more danger than she already was, stealin’ that shit back? See, them were just things, and you can always get more of ‘em. Ain’t worth someone’s life.” 

Peter could feel the burning behind his eyes, the twisting of his gut. “I don’t think you’re one to make those types of claims, friend. Ain’t that what we’re doin’?”

Harry paused, considering for a moment, his gaze softening slightly. He gave a single nod, urging his gelding forward. “Alright. Fair enough.” 

“Besides,” Peter continued, his voice lowering to almost a murmur. “Them weren’t just things. My—”

“Your uncle’s watch and your aunt’s ring, I know,” Harry said, cutting him off. 

Peter’s mouth clamped shut as he looked down at his hands. 

A moment passed, only the sound of their horses’ hooves on the damp ground between them. There was the familiar rising lump in Peter’s throat again, the welling anger within him threatening to tip over, though he wasn’t sure how. 

“I am sorry,” Harry said after another beat. “‘Bout that. Truly, I am.” 

Peter wasn’t sure what this man expected from him in reply. Forgiveness? Was it reassurance that all was well? That there were no hard feelings? There was sincerity in the man’s voice, but it was unclear as to how genuine it was. Harry certainly seemed the type to be able to show false compassion when he needed to.

Peter said nothing. 

In the distance, he could see that the road they were on diverged into two separate paths. The left, he knew led to the small, rugged settlement, Manzanita Post, and eventually, Blackwater. He’d been out there—Blackwater—just once, when he was a little kid. While he didn’t remember much on account of just how young he was, he could still feel the rock of the lake underneath the boat, the creak of the dock underneath his feet, the softness of his mother’s voice, the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder as he guided him through the crowd of people. 

He, his father and mother, had come in on the ferry, Uncle Ben and Aunt May waiting for them at the docks with open arms. 

It was the last time he’d seen his parents alive. 

And as for the path on the right, he did not know. It seemed to only lead further into the forest, following the base of the mountain. There was something haunting about the way the fog seemed to grow thicker, the distance sound of wolves howling only adding to the trepidation Peter felt in his gut. 

It was a fool’s hope to say that Harry would take the path on the left, but as unsettled as Peter was, he still followed the man as he went right. 

And as they ventured further into the woods, Kitty’s ears pricked forward, her head raising as they came upon a bend in the road. The smell of smoke hung on the air, growing thicker the further they went. The horses picked up their pace as Harry lead them off the path and into the dense trees. Soon, Peter could see the faint glow of the campfire, the flickering light of candles just ahead. 

“Who goes there?” A feminine voice shouted from behind the trees, the gut-wrenching sound of a rifle being cocked following. 

“It’s Harry!” 

The woman stepped into view, lowering her gun, illuminated by Harry’s lantern. “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” she mused, her voice taking on a teasing tone. “Didn’t expect you till mornin’, at least. Nickel night end early?”

“Shut up,” Harry scoffed. “I was just cleanin’ up Baker’s mess.”

It was then that she looked past Harry at the stranger, her expression shifting into one of dangerous curiosity. “Well, ain’t this a rare treat,” she practically purred, her lips twisting into a smirk as her eyes flashed mischievously. 

Peter felt the fire of her gaze burning him. It was odd, how she drank him in, how it felt both sensual and analytical as if she were searching for weaknesses, easy pockets to pick. “This what you needed my Kitty for?” She asked, not taking her eyes from him. Her voice was smooth, a false innocence behind it. “What’s your name, mister?”

Before Peter could answer, Harry opened his mouth. 

“Peter Parker,” he said, gesturing to the man behind him, an impatience to his tone that seemed to only make the woman’s smile widen. “Peter, this is Felicia Hardy. Now,” he cleared his throat. “Miss Hardy, if you’ll excuse us.” 

“Oh, of course,” she smirked, stepping aside. 

“Keep your eyes open,” Harry called over his shoulder. 

Peter swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest as they came to a clearing in the trees. Tents and wagons were spread across the area, horses all gathered, grazing off to the side. Harry dismounted, signaling for Peter to do so as well, leading their horses to a nearby post and tying them up. 

His feet felt as if they were filled with lead as he followed Harry through the sleeping camp. There were a few souls awake that Peter could see; a lone man at the campfire, a bottle in his hand as he stared into the flames. There was a woman, a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she sat up in her cot, reading a book by a single lit candle. 

All was quiet, the only sounds being those of the forest around them, and it was then that Peter began to feel the weight of exhaustion dragging him to the ground. 

Harry said nothing as he led Peter to a corner of the camp, a rough lean-to with a single, worn bedroll. The sight made Peter wonder if saying no to coming here had ever truly been an option. 

“Welcome to your cozy little abode,” Harry quipped dryly. “Home sweet home, huh?”

Peter could not form a response, the lump in his throat tightening as he nodded solemnly, watching silently as Harry walked back into the center of camp. For a moment, Peter closed his eyes, breathing deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of the pines around him, focusing on the nature around him. 

He opened his eyes, blinking away the stinging sensation behind them, as he kicked off his boots, gently laying Uncle Ben’s rifle against the frame of the tent. And as he sat down on his small bedroll, he looked up to the sky, only seeing the twinkling stars briefly before his vision blurred, burning. A concoction of grief and frustration welled in his chest, rising like bile in his throat. 

With a sniff, Peter laid back, tucking his arm behind his head as he watched the sky through clouded eyes. There was a weariness tugging at his heart, setting a rock in his belly. The moon was low in the sky, and he knew that Aunt May would be waking soon; waking to a cold and empty house, a hastily scribbled note left behind in his stead. He blinked, willing away the water in his eyes as his jaw set. Somehow, even in the blind hope he felt that this would all be over tomorrow, he couldn’t help the inkling that he was wrong. 

He didn’t remember falling asleep; one moment, his eyes were drifting closed, his throat dry, and the next, he was awoken by the gentle kick in the side from a boot. The sky was a pale blue, the night still clinging to the trees and grass. Morning birds chirped pleasantly, though the sound did nothing to settle Peter’s stomach as he jolted awake. 

“Mornin’,” the voice of Harry sounded above him, already dressed for the day, holding his hat in his hands. “Boss wants to meet ya.” 

Peter blearily looked up at him, shivering from the chilled morning breeze. He sighed, scratching his eyes as he sat up in his bedroll, having trouble adjusting to being roused so rudely from his sleep. “Right.”

But Harry didn’t leave; he stood there, expectantly waiting for Peter to rise on his shaky legs, still in his clothes from the day before. 

“C’mon,” Harry said, nodding his head over his shoulder. 

Peter had no choice but to follow. 

The camp, too, was waking up—though perhaps not as suddenly as Peter had—a young man and a young woman gathered around the campfire, sipping groggily on their tin cups of coffee. They were young, about Peter’s age. Both had kind faces, Peter would say, given the life that they chose as running with a gang of outlaws. The man was shorter, sturdy, a slight smile pulling at his mouth as he talked to the woman. She was young, too. Pretty and blonde, a cooled confidence in her eyes that made Peter tear his away as they watched him walk by. 

Another man—one that Peter recognized from the night in the saloon—stood at his tent, expression focused as he stared into a small mirror, a shaving razer in his hand. A different man, carrying a large stack of hay, gave a single nod as he walked by. They walked by a tent with three women sitting underneath, two sewing patches into worn pieces of clothing, one scrubbing the dirt from a shirt. 

A larger man stood behind a butcher’s table, chopping and slicing up a chunk of venison. 

Harry greeted each and every person with a stiff smile and a nod, pressing ahead without taking any longer than a moment for conversation. 

It was odd, how much this campsite was like a town, a community. Though, Peter was smarter than to think that this meant they were anything more than outlaws. A family or not, they still ran against the law. They still took advantage of folk like his aunt and uncle. 

If Mr. Baker was amongst this group, then they couldn’t be any good. 

Peter could feel the nerves rising within him, a slight shake to his hands as he struggled to find something to do with them. They stopped just outside of the largest tent, Harry turning slightly, as if to make sure Peter hadn’t run off. 

“Herr Osborn!” A new voice shouted, approaching them quickly with a ledger tucked under his arm. They turned, seeing an older gentleman, balding, glasses pinching the tip of his nose, his beady eyes burning into Peter. “Herr Osborn, I see you brought us another mouth to feed!”

Harry huffed in false amusement. With a shake of his head, he grinned. “Mr. Parker, may I introduce my associate, Mr. Octavius.” 

_ “Doctor _ Octavius,” the old man corrected with a smug grin. 

“What you a doctor of anyway?” Harry asked skeptically, hooking his thumb into his gun belt, eyeing the old man. He passed Peter a knowing looking, eyebrows raised. “I’m sure you know all about Dr. Octavius.”

Peter swallowed, feeling a quiet anger festering in his stomach at the sight of the man. “I do,” was all he could muster in reply.

“Ah, yes,” Octavius looked at Peter from under his glasses, his mouth twisted into a frown. “Herr Parker. How nice to finally make your acquaintance.” His frown then turned upward into a grin. “You and your aunt have been giving me lots of trouble, you know.”

It was then that Peter felt the overwhelming urge to punch this man. He and Aunt May had given  _ him _ trouble? For making every single  _ damn  _ payment for this man? For not wanting to give up the two things most precious to them when they’d been asked to pay a week ahead of schedule?

Peter’s jaw tightened, though he remained silent. 

“Yes,” Harry said for him, nodding. “Thank you for your patience, Dr. Octavius.”

Octavius let out a single, genuine laugh. He found this all to be exceedingly humorous. “You should thank Herr Osborn,” he said to Peter. “Without him, you and your aunt would be in a prison with all the other debtors in the world!” 

Harry placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, which he quickly shrugged off.

“Herr Octavius,” a new voice said, a clear, smooth baritone. A man stood at the opening of the tent, tall and looming. He had the air of a true gentleman, rich and boastful. There was a warmth to his smile, though it still set an unease in the pit of Peter’s stomach. 

Octavius smiled, nodding at the man. “Ah, yes. Good morning, sir.”

Harry turned to Peter. “This is my father, Norman Osborn. The boss. Pa, this is Peter Parker—the man I told you about.” 

Norman grinned, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Mr. Parker. It’s a pleasure.” 

Peter balked, unsure of what to say. Saying it were a pleasure, too, would be a lie. He settled for a tight, “sir,” as he shook the man’s hand.

“I trust my son’s explained our situation?” Norman asked, placing a hand on his hip as he leaned against the frame of the surprisingly lavish tent. “Harry can be a bit of a blockhead sometimes, so it’s always best to make sure.”

Harry scoffed at his father, shaking his head. “He knows enough.”

Norman nodded, arms folding across his chest. 

Octavius cleared his throat. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some business to Blackwater to attend to,” He tipped his hat. “It was a pleasure, Herr Parker.” 

Peter did not return the sentiment, finding himself seeing red as the old man walked away. 

“I prefer robbin’ banks to usury,” Norman muttered under his breath, watching Octavius leave, huffing in mild amusement. “Seems more dignified somehow.”

Harry chuckled lightly, giving a single nod. “At least then the people  _ know _ they’re bein’ robbed.” 

Peter could not help the prickling anger he felt creeping up his spine. The two of them, joking about stealing from hard-working people, talking about it as if it’s something as simple as the turn of the breeze. 

“Oh, but it’s legal work,” Norman said in a voice that Peter could only assume was meant to mock the loan shark Octavius, meant to echo his own words. “Now, Mr. Parker,” Norman turned his attention. “I heard all about what happened with Mr. Baker, and can I just offer my sincerest apologies.” 

Peter swallowed, only giving a single nod. There was something about this man that didn’t sit right with him. More so than anyone else he’d met. It was in the presentation of his smile, the sheer bravado of it all. 

“Ain’t the way we do things ‘round here, I can promise you that. Mr. Baker’s been talked to and set straight. He’s a good man, at heart. Under all that bluster is the man he is inside.” 

No matter how much Peter doubted that, he kept his mouth shut. 

A good man wouldn’t do what he did. 

“That all bein’ said,” Norman continued. “I sure appreciate you helpin’ us out. I’m sure my son’s told you, but… Wilson Fisk and I have a… complicated history.” There was a glint in his eye, a cold distance that told more than words could. It was beyond complicated, it seemed. “Wilson Fisk is nothin’ but a rat of a man. What he’s got comin’, he deserves. You can rest easy, knowin’ that.”

Peter shifted on his feet, glancing at the ground. “With all due respect, Mr. Osborn,” He swallowed, his voice coming out rough. “I still don’t know what I’m doin’. Or—or when I’m doin’ it.”

Norman’s gaze shifted to his son, lingering for a moment, before coming back to Peter. 

Harry clapped Peter on the back. “Like I said, friend, you’re helpin’ us steal something that he stole from us.” 

Peter was ready to respond, to demand real answers, none of the bluster that was coming out of their mouths, feeling the frustration nearly boil over inside of him, but Norman was quick to cut him off. 

“Harry’s prized mare,” he added easily, giving a solemn nod. “Some a’ the other horses, too.” 

Harry sucked in a breath, blowing it out as he looked out at the horizon, eyes squinting as the sunlight poked through the trees. 

“All near and dear to us.”

There was a somberness in their silence that followed. While Peter was still wary of these men, he certainly knew the feeling. A man’s horse was more than just a mode of transportation. Losing one—even just one—was hard on anyone. Rich or poor. Good or bad. 

Though, given the nature of these men—outlaws and what not—Peter wondered of the integrity of where they’d acquired these horses, no matter how loved they were.

“Tonight,” was all that he said in the end. 

Norman shook Peter’s hand once more before returning to his book in his tent, whistling to himself as the younger men walked away. 

The camp was alive now, fully and vibrantly so. Shouts and yells were heard across the clearing as two men rode away on horseback, no doubt going on some job. At least, Peter assumed. Thieves and criminals heading out into the world did not seem to be going out for anything good or well-intentioned. 

Harry brought him to the fire once again, the young man and woman from earlier still there. 

“Good mornin’, Ms. Stacy,” Harry greeted, tipping his hat at the two. “Mr. Leeds.”

The woman gave him a polite smile, holding her tin cup close to her chest. “Mornin’.” 

“Mornin’!” The man replied cheerily.

Again, Harry brought a hand to Peter’s shoulder, urging him forward. “This is my friend Mr. Parker.” 

“How do,” the woman said, the corners of her lips quirking upward into a faint grin. 

“Howdy.” The man—Mr. Leeds—had a warm, youthful friendliness that somehow put Peter at ease—even if only for the briefest of moments. He seemed a genuine feller, his smile reaching his eyes and beyond. 

Peter gave a single nod. “Hello.”

“Leeds,” Harry said to the man, throwing a friendly nod in his direction. “I need a favor.”

The man’s smile faded, though it was still there. His eyes widened slightly. “Sure, Harry. What you need?” 

“Can you help Mr. Parker here get acquainted with—” He gestured vaguely at their general surroundings. “—everything ‘round here? I’m afraid I have some business that needs seein’ to before tonight.” 

Mr. Leeds nodded readily. “Oh, sure. Course.” 

Truthfully, Peter was glad to be rid of Harry, even if only for a brief time. The man wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but the company of someone that hadn’t swindled his aunt would have been preferable. 

The corner of Harry’s mouth tugged into a grin as he thanked the two of them, excusing himself before wandering off to the horses. 

It was silent after he’d left, Peter not knowing what to do with himself as the two young outlaws just stared at him. His hands fidgeted, tapping against his leg as his gaze moved from tree to tree. 

Mr. Leeds was the first to break the silence. “So, Mr. Parker—”

“—Peter’s just fine.” 

And the man smiled, nodding. “Peter. I’m—I’m Ned, as you heard Harry say. This is Gwen,” He gestured to the woman next to him. “We heard about what happened, and we’re… We’re sorry to hear it.” 

This was the first time Peter felt any true sincerity from anyone who’d said those words. In the strangest way, it tugged at his chest. 

He only nodded, not knowing how to respond. 

“Does this whole damn camp know about it?” He asked, almost laughing despite his sour mood. 

Gwen grinned. “Just about.” 

“You could hear the shoutin’ all the way at the basin,” Ned chuckled sheepishly. “Baker might be dull as rusted iron, but it’s not often he gets a fast one pulled on him like that.” His eyes widened with a childlike excitement. “Did you really jump out a window?”

Peter found himself letting out a faint huff of laughter. “Well, I—Yes. I did.” 

Ned let out a low, impressed whistle, Gwen rolling her eyes fondly. 

“Scuse me, gentlemen, but I have some chores that need doin’,” Gwen said, shaking her head with a faint smile. “You know… real work ‘round here. Good to meet ya, Peter.” 

“You, too, miss,” Peter replied.

The warmth that this man possessed that seemed to radiate from his head to his boots gave him pause. Ned seemed a bright, eager to please soul. It only made Peter wonder what could have possibly happened to drive a decent young man into a band of reprobates. 

It didn’t make much sense. 

And it stuck with him, as Ned lead him through the camp, showing him where he could eat, where he could find medicine and bandages, where he could get some extra ammo. Ned smiled at and tipped his hat to each person they passed, always earning a pleasant grin in return. 

It was odd, how these outlaws seemed to be so warm with one another. 

Before he had thought it a community, but now it seemed more and more a family, even. 

Though that did nothing to take away the knowledge that these were all wanted men and women. Thieves and killers, the lot of them. 

It all was enough to make Peter’s head spin with how quickly his thoughts were changing and circling. 

The two had made it to the edge of the camp, staring at the open forest ahead of them, a beautiful sight for sure; a sight that under different circumstances, Peter might have admired. They’d circled back to the fire, both of them taking a moment to rest, sitting beside it. 

“So,” Ned started. “I wanna hear more about this window-jumpin’ habit you got.” 

Peter felt himself laugh. “Not really a habit, I’d say. Just a one time deal.” 

That didn’t seem to sway Ned. He eyed him expectantly, brows raised in genuine and excited interest. 

“Ah—” Peter scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe a story for another time.” 

Ned didn’t press. Instead, he nodded slowly. He then went on with his own stories of his fondest memories. Some were funny enough to make Peter chuckle, despite himself. Ned laughed as he recalled the time he was caught buying fish from the market instead of actually fishing for it. 

And it was then that Peter was thankful, for what felt like the first time in forever. However long he was going to be here, he was at least glad that there was someone he could stand to talk to.

It was nice, in a way. 

But as the night approached, as the sun lowered in the sky, the ease he’d felt melted away into a nauseating worry. 

Stealing horses wasn’t the same as stealing family treasures. 

Harry had sworn up and down that it’d be easy. A quick, in-and-out job. 

But even then, Peter couldn’t help but feel that was far from the truth. While he hadn’t been there long—less than a day in fact—he was sure of one thing; something that set a pit in his stomach. 

_ Nothing _ with this gang was ever—or would ever be— _ easy.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEE HAW
> 
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**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! 
> 
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> 
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